


Rise

by sugarspuncoeurls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: And a wee bit of angst, F/M, Female Character of Color, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarspuncoeurls/pseuds/sugarspuncoeurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a sense, he knew this day was coming. Hawke had always considered herself a queen, and he knew – as they all knew – that with her brand of ambition, she would get her throne.</p><p>In the smoking aftermath of the mages’ rebellion and the Knight-Commander’s defeat, Fenris is left wondering – as a comrade, as a friend, and as a lover – just what the future holds for him and the woman with whom he’s shared his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First Fenhawke fic! My horizons continue to broaden. Feedback is appreciated. Please enjoy!

He’d be lying if he said he knew what was happening. He hasn’t known since that first call to arms, since the Gallows erupted with the Knight-Commander’s wrath, since Morowa chose her side and he and the others followed in her wake.

Now, the city lies in proverbial ruins. The sky threatens rain as dark clouds scour the horizon, and all around them the bodies of templars and mages alike lie prone, casualties of a war he suspects has only just begun. The others stand with him, surveying the damage with the same strange detachment of those who have yet to fully grasp all that has happened, before their eyes rest some yards away, where Kirkwall’s Champion supports the hunched form of one of the last of Kirkwall’s Chantry.

Sebastian’s face is away from his sight, lowered and hidden in the shadows created by their bodies. Fenris can see the sharp tension in his shoulders, painfully strained, taut like the bowstrings he so expertly handles, and doesn’t know if it’s a result of shock, sorrow, or some terrible rage. It affects him nonetheless, makes the skin of his forehead crease even more than it already is, and yet he remains back, assures himself that the man will be alright, given time and Morowa’s care. He watches as she gently cups Sebastian’s cheeks, looks up into his shadowed face and speaks, her garnet-painted lips moving with words he can’t hear. Whatever she says must work, because after one more stretched moment, in which the bright blue of his eyes meets the dark warmth of hers, the string seems to snap and release Sebastian just enough to allow him to wrap her in his arms, press her into the shape of his body with what can only be a desperation born of loss. Morowa accepts him willingly, lays her long fingers across his neck as he buries his face in the cradle between her neck and shoulders, and when she meets Fenris’ gaze, he can see the reassurance in her kohl-lined eyes. _He’ll recover_ , she seems to say, and he nods and takes what comfort he can from it, forces the pressure between his brows to lessen before he turns to their companions. “Sebastian is…calming, but Hawke needs more time with him. In the meantime, we should take the initiative and try to put the city back to order.” _Or whatever it was before this mess_ , he thinks to himself, and is slightly amused to see his thoughts reflected in the faces around him.

“I’ll gather the guard and split us into groups to gather the civilians.” Aveline readjusts the grip on her shield and points it toward the rest of the city. “We’ll go by sector; half in Hightown, half in Lowtown.”

“We’ll be wasting our time in Hightown.” Isabela grins. “Those bluebloods vanished into their locked safes as soon as they got wind of the commotion, and chances are they won’t be coming back out until their riches are secured and their overblown sense of importance is reassured.”

“Let’s see how important they feel when they find out who their dear Lady Champion sided with.” Varric chuckles, his eyes bright like the ink he’ll no doubt be dipping into come morning. “Oh, this chapter of Duchess’ story is gonna be a _hoot_.”

“I agree with ‘Bela,” Merrill chimes, her fingers wrapped tight around her staff. “Those people in Hightown’re like skittish birds. They’ll stay hiding in the clouds ‘til they know for sure the ground is safe again.”

“A solid point,” Aveline concedes. “We focus on Lowtown and below, then. Try to gather the people and calm them to working order. We’ll reconvene here in a few hours.” She looks to Fenris. “You’ll let Hawke know of our plans?” He nods.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Varric eyes the scattered circles of templars and mages littering the courtyard. “This little interlude won’t last.”

So it goes. Collectively shrugging the fatigue from their shoulders, they go their separate ways. Aveline sets off to find her guard while the others follow suit in the direction of Lowtown, with Varric and Merrill in the lead. Isabela lingers just long enough to run a finger down Fenris’ chest, her eyes glittering. “Give her a smack for me, hm?” she says, then drags the finger sweetly upward to chuck him under the chin. “Let her know it makes us even. I didn’t sign up to be a hero.” She winks at the small smile he forms before trotting away after the walking pair, leaving him effectively alone. In the stillness that takes her place, Fenris sighs and puts a hand to his neck, working to relieve the pressure of the sword strapped across his back. No surprise that it doesn’t work. He sighs again.

“Well, what a pleasant sight. A handsome knight, caught in a rare moment of reprieve.”

Fenris smirks at the voice that comes to his ears a few yards from his person, though he doesn’t turn to acknowledge the speaker. “There are only world-weary warriors to be found here, I’m afraid.”

“And he’s humble. How charming.”

Right; as if he’s ever been. He feels the moment a presence makes itself known at his back, just out of arms’ reach. Waiting. His smirk widens.

_She always waits._

Fenris reaches behind him, armored hand extended. Expectantly, bare, soft-skinned fingers close around his own, and the now-familiar tingle of mana travels the pathway of his arm’s lyrium markings, quick and light. When he clasps the hand in his and gently pulls, Morowa graces into his line of sight, her mouth pursed in disappointment. “Oh, you ruined the mystery,” she grouses. Fenris snorts.

“Because I had no idea it was you.” Morowa’s pout deepens.

“Play pretend, Fenris. We had the perfect scenario: a fatigued cavalier struggling to continue the fight, met by a gorgeous, well-meaning healer offering a precious moment’s rest and sustenance from a water skin.” Her wide lips stretch into a grin, her unclasped hand coming to rest against one ample hip. “The possibilities are endless.” Fenris shakes his head.

“Only you could dream up something so frivolous at the tail-end of a city-wide battle, Hawke.”

“As if my many talents should still surprise you.”

A solid point he can’t deny. Despite himself, Fenris smiles, his fingers tightening minutely around her own. “Touché, madam.”

“Touché, indeed, my fine warrior.” Lifting her hand from her hip, Morowa brings her fingers to his bothered shoulder – she must have seen him rubbing it earlier – and probes a tender thumb until she finds the focal point of the pressure. She eyes him questioningly, and at his accepting nod, releases a small wave of healing through the focus, just warm enough to ease away the hard tension she’s found. “There now, that should keep your world-weariness at bay for a while. Once this whole debacle is over, I’ll mix you up a proper salve.”

“Another one of your Chasind liniments?” he quips, breathing in and slowly exhaling as the spell travels its course and finally dissipates, though its warmth lingers.

“Only the best for those I place under my care.” Morowa winks. “You should be grateful. It’s quite the privileged circle.”

“So I’ve heard.” Shrugging to test the spell’s effects, he’s relieved to find his fatigue largely gone. He grabs Morowa’s hand again, and bringing it close, brushes his lips lightly over her dark knuckles. “Thank you,” he says. Beaming, Morowa pulls their hands to her mouth and returns the gesture, her kiss pressing to his steel claws.

“No thanks necessary, love.”

Fenris allows their touch to linger, welcoming the short reprieve she’s brought, before he sobers and drops his hold. “How is Sebastian?”

“Distraught, understandably.” Morowa lets out a gusty breath, the tight curls of her hair lifting slightly away from her face. Reflexively, she fixes them back into her immaculate coiffure. “He insisted on helping the civilians with the others, to take his mind off the…event. Nothing’s certain, of course, but I think he’ll heal, in time.”

“And Anders?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, though he really only half-succeeds. To his surprise, Morowa shrugs.

“I don’t know, to be honest.” She smirks, slightly self-deprecating. “Shocking, isn’t it? I honestly don’t know what to do about him. I let him live, he helped us fight and healed a few of the fallen, and now he’s disappeared into the ether.” She looks at him. “What should I have done, do you think?”

“Killed him,” he answers brusquely, without preamble. Morowa lifts her brow.

“Silly question.”

“Yes, it was, though not for the reasons you assume.” Fenris shifts, his chest tight-feeling in his armor. “Anders wanted to be a martyr, Hawke; I say we should have let him. It would have been the best option for all involved.” He goes to run a hand roughly through his hair, his tension threatening to return, then realizes she’s lightly clenched her own fingers around the leather of her sleeve, a kind of parallel to his own action. Meeting her gaze, he takes another deep breath, brings his agitation under control, and gives her a bittersweet look. “I’m not implying you should be responsible for his actions, Hawke. You may both be mages, but you are also your own people. You knew nothing of his plans.”

“I should have,” she replies simply, though her grip tellingly tightens. “I expected him to eventually act, but I should have anticipated just how far he would go.”

He shakes his head. “You’re an exceptional woman, Hawke. But even _you_ are no mind-reader.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to be.” Lifting her eyes, Morowa studies the gray sky. “Different as we were, we were similar in our circumstance, two mages with little love for the Circle or Chantry. In our want for freedom, we were of the same mind, however much our methods for finding it may have varied.”

Fenris lowers his gaze. “I...realize.” He would rather not admit it, not think about it at all, but he knows what she says is true. He knows she can’t ever view Anders as just a mage gone rogue – doubts even _he_ can, after a decade of shared time – and knows she’ll never be able to so long as people look at _her_ with the same unwarranted suspicion in their eyes.

Part of him still doesn’t want to admit that, over these years, he’s come to understand at least a little of what they’ve been saying all this time.

Struggling with the building weight between them and the turmoil clearly written on her face, Fenris grabs a gentle hold of Morowa’s chin and tilts her face down, their eyes catching and holding. “I don’t like the chaos of all this, Hawke.”

She smiles the tiniest bit at his bluntness. “Neither do I. You know how much I loathe disarray, Fenris. This entire day has been nothing less than the Void for me.”

He huffs amusedly, his thumb rasping over the defined jut of her cheekbone and the subsequent roundness of her cheek. “So it has.”

“How shall we proceed, then?”

It’s so rare that she ever relinquishes control enough to ask such a thing. For as long as he’s known her, Morowa Hawke has always had an answer, if not _the_ answer, to every obstacle they’ve ever faced. The only exception has been in regards to their own relationship. To this day, it remains the only wild card in her life she’s never sought to put a plan to.

 _Funny._ He doesn’t think either of them expected to find themselves in such a way at the end of this, with her trusting enough to ask him for guidance, and him trusting enough to be here to give it. _Sounds like one of Varric’s novels_ , he thinks, unsettling as the thought is.

“Fenris?”

“I’m not sure,” he finally answers. “I don’t think, however, that we should waste what remaining energy we have on could-have-beens.” Gently, he releases her with a chuck under the chin. “What’s done is done, and while Anders is gone, the rest of us are still here. Let us _focus_ here, where a difference can still be made.”

Morowa blinks, her expression almost comical coming after the heaviness of their words. “When did you become such an optimist?”

“Not an optimist, a realist,” he corrects, though the smirk has returned to his face. “And I clearly get it from far too much time spent with you.”

Morowa scoffs. “That can’t be. If you took anything from me, it would be my wit and impeccable sense of style. And I know for a _fact_ that you’ve taken to neither.”

“Gods forbid I ever will.” Fenris sighs in the tolerant way he always does when she ‘inadvertently’ compliments herself, but notices that, for now, his admittedly poor attempt at positivity seems to have worked. It makes the warmth still present in his chest from her spell deepen just a touch, a sensation he can’t deny brings him comfort. He shifts again. “Shall we return to the matters at hand?”

“A good plan. Best save our arguments for when we’re safe and sound.” She winks at him. He gives her a dry look in return, but accepts their truce, his thoughts returning to Sebastian as he thinks of the sight of the burning Chantry waiting for them in Hightown.

“Sebastian will have nowhere to go with his home destroyed.” Morowa nods, her head tilting as she thinks.

“Mm, he certainly can’t sleep in all that rubble now, can he? Luckily, the manor is still standing, and has only suffered a few minor burns from the day’s festivities. A temporary solution, most likely, but staying with me will at least keep our good brother out of the rain.” Her lips pucker thoughtfully. “Prince will certainly be thrilled. Sebastian always gives him the most attention, next to Merrill.”

A little more of the tension eases out of Fenris’ shoulders. It may seem a small thing compared to the larger problems currently heaped on one another, but it gives him the sense that, with each little victory, they have a better chance of making _something_ out of this mess, if not the best.

And then he pauses.

 _…wait_.

In the wake of Morowa’s assertion, they both seem to notice at once. Shifting on his heels, Fenris scans the Gallows’ courtyard, his brow furrowing as he meets Morowa’s equally puzzled gaze. “Where-”

“I _thought_ something was missing after Sebastian left to find the others! Damn it all if it wasn’t the feel of hot breath on my hip!” With a frustrated huff, Morowa turns on her heeled boots and scans the courtyard again. “Where did that dog get off to?”

“He wouldn’t just leave your side,” Fenris points out. “Has the area been secured?”

“I’d hope so. The templars – those remaining, anyway – have eyeballed every crevice and corner. And even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t pursue a threat far enough to leave my sight.” Morowa sighs, her features twisted in worry. “On top of all the ludicrous things that have happened today…”

“We’ll look for him,” Fenris affirms. He reaches to unclench Morowa’s fingers from her sleeve – and gives them a final quick squeeze – before releasing them and adjusting his sword across his back. “Ready?”

“As ever.”

* * *

Of course.

Of course.

_Of. Course._

“Of course,” Fenris mutters to himself, his eyes rolling toward a towering, decorated ceiling. _We should have known. He’s **her** dog._

And where would Lady Hawke’s faithful canine go to find his noble mistress in the midst of a crisis?

The Viscount’s Keep.

They looked everywhere, from the mansions of Hightown to the chaotic underbelly of Lowtown. They eventually joined with the others in rounding up the citizens, though they kept their ears perked for a bark and their eyes open for the sight of a wagging tail stub. There was nothing; evening came and went, though it was difficult to tell with the haze of gray still shrouding the sky, blanketing the moon and stars. Slowly, the city came under the sway of order – or at least a very thin semblance of it, and unanimously, they decided it was time to finally tend their injuries and rest their heads. Sebastian reluctantly agreed to Morowa’s housing suggestion; while his shoulders were still heavy from obvious grief, a tiny smile did come to his face when Isabela noisily smacked Morowa’s rump for, as she claimed, “turning me into some charitable, world-forsaken goody two-shoes.” He accompanied her as she haughtily announced her own stay at the manor for the night (“and you can bet that pretty ass I’m taking your bed, _Champion_ ”), her arm wrapped tight around his shoulders as she sought to lift his mood with her usual bevy of jokes, though Fenris noticed that she kept her voice soft and her head leaning companionably on his shoulder. Aveline found them all just long enough to update the situation and insist they call it a day, then marched off again to find her complement, and Varric volunteered to escort Merrill home before chuckling and obliging when she quietly requested to stay at the manor as well, “if that’s of course alright with you, Morowa.” Needless to say, it was, and Fenris and Morowa waved to them all as they departed. It was tempting to join them; the thought of removing his sword and armor and her staff and boots was intoxicating, but one look at Morowa’s face told Fenris she would get no rest until their last companion was accounted for. So the search continued until finally, the only logical place remaining outside Darktown was the seat of Kirkwall’s currently nonexistent power.

And – of course – that’s right where the damned dog was.

Prince was found waiting for them at the Keep’s entrance, his large muscled body lazily collapsed on the stone steps, his tongue lolling out of his huge maw. When he saw them, he let out an excited bark, rose on his haunches, and bounded toward them, his ear tips flapping and his tail stub wagging for all the world. Morowa loosed a tolerant sigh at the sight of him, but when Fenris looked at her, and saw the relief coloring her sculpted features, he conceded the search worth it. _One more small thing that has managed to work out today._ A good feeling.

Now, they stand inside, eager for a quick respite from the still-milling streets. Fenris leans against one of the tall pillars near the grand staircase, feeling odd in the silence of the usually bustling hall. Prince lounges next to him, softly panting, his massive head heavy on the man’s foot and ankle.

Morowa is poised on the first landing, her back to him, her arms crossed over her leather-bound chest, her skirt-clad hip cocked in a familiar stance. She seems reflective as she scans the grand hall, the dark brown of her skin and hair reflecting the moonlight streaming through the high-up windows. Fenris watches her silently, looks to her body language for a glance into her thoughts, then blinks in surprise when she speaks, her voice echoing low and smooth in the emptiness.

“You know this is what I’ve always wanted.”

Fenris smirks. “I know.” He remembers hearing her speak on it one night early on in their friendship, with wine warm in their bellies and the fireplace flickering light over the shadowed walls. He remembers her sitting before him, her teeth glinting as she spoke of her plans for her family, of the security she was determined to find for them. He remembers their debates on politics, the Chantry, the mages and their plight. He remembers the respect he felt towards her views, even when he disagreed with them. And he remembers the spark of attraction – the first of many – that resonated defiantly in his chest when she tossed her head back, laughed, and swore that she would rule Kirkwall one day.

It was years later that he learned she hadn’t been joking. It became clear as time passed, as she reclaimed her family’s estate, as she made a name for herself and didn’t stop in satisfaction, but instead kept going, made herself the Viscount’s right hand and gained the notoriety of a woman with the world at her back, a person of power and influence. No, she hadn’t been joking that night, no more than she’d been joking when she had looked at him with shining eyes and told him she loved him, no more than _he_ had been joking when he had grasped her face in his armored hands and kissed her with everything he had just earlier that day, when it had seemed so possible that he might lose her.

In a sense, he knew this day was coming. Morowa Hawke had always considered herself a queen, and he knew – as they _all_ knew – that with her brand of ambition, she would get her throne.

He doubts he was part of her plan. An elven man, a former _slave_ finding his way to her side? Not even she could have anticipated such a twist of so-called fate. But here he is, with her, as he’s been for what feels like a lifetime.

Damn him if he doesn’t want to stay for a while longer.

 _But can I?_ He closes his eyes to his own thoughts, a tiny, tired smile finding its way to his lips. _Is there even a place for me in the kingdom she’s trying to build?_

“Fenris?” He opens his eyes to see her watching him, her head tilted in curiosity. She’s still on that landing with her arms crossed loosely over her chest. The silverite rings on her fingers – gifts from Isabela – glimmer in the dust-smattered moonlight, as do the matching studs in her ears and the long jewel-encrusted chain adorning her neck. She smiles with raised eyebrows. “You’re brooding.” He purses his lips.

“I don’t brood.”

“And _I_ don’t prattle on about myself for hours at a time.” With a knowing smile, Morowa uncrosses her arms and holds out her hands, palms up and open in invitation. It’s one Fenris can’t resist, and he lightly shakes Prince off his foot and leaves the dog to doze before slowly making his way up the red-carpeted steps to her side. Just as she goes for his hands, he pulls them out of her reach, undoes the safeguards on his gauntlets, and tugs them off. He attaches them to his belt, stretches and cracks his fingers, before finally taking her hands in his. “They’re dirty,” he says in explanation. Her smile widens.

“They didn’t bother you before.”

“I didn’t notice, then. I do now.” He wrinkles his nose in a small show of distaste, and Morowa clucks her tongue.

“Sounds like someone’s in need of a warm bath.” Her eyes abruptly widen in earnest. “With candlelight. And scented _oils_.”

The wrinkle in his nose doesn’t wane. “Is this bath for me or you?”

“You mean I have to choose?” Morowa copies him with a nose wrinkle of her own. “Well, that’s no fun.”

Fenris shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure in your future palace, there will be a tub extravagant enough for you, me, and the entirety of the Free Marches. Plenty of ‘fun’ to be had, and everything your greedy little heart will possibly desire.”

Morowa’s eyebrows smartly lift as she brightens. “You say ‘greedy’ like it’s a bad thing. Good that you painted such a wonderful picture, or else I’d be liable to take offense.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. Of course it would never occur to her to take offense anyway. Abandoning his hold on her hands, he lifts his own to purposefully grasp her cheeks and lean in close, his gaze rising the one scant inch it takes to grab and hold hers.

“You. Are. _Shameless_ , Hawke.” A slow statement, exaggerated almost to a fault to get across his point. It makes her laugh, her body gently shaking, her breath puffing warm and inviting against his lips. Bringing her hands up to cradle his face as well, she responds in kind, and just as slowly.

“I. _Know_.”

He thinks he kisses her first; he’s become too fixated on her mouth not to, on the shine of her teeth and the fullness of her cheeks and the deliberate way her lips form those two words. He also thinks she’s waiting for him to, if the immediate wrapping of her arms around his neck is any indication.

Regardless, it turns out to be what they both need. They’ve been in life-threatening situations before – it’s the only consistent thing this gods-forsaken city can guarantee – but never on the scale of today’s battle. Too many times today he saw a robed figure fall and panicked thinking it was her, just before the familiar sensation of her barrier encasing his body would assure him of her continued breath. Too many times today he thought he heard her cry out, only to turn around and see another mage transform herself into a monster. Too many times he thought that half-frantic kiss they shared would be their last, that they would lose whatever beautifully messy thing they’d found all those years ago, and only recently chosen to keep.

This kiss confirms it. As the last dregs of adrenaline in his blood slowly die, he finally allows himself to believe that they’re safe, that _she’s_ safe, that she’s here and he’s here and neither one of them is going anywhere the other can’t follow. He shifts his hold on her cheeks, moves one hand into the tiny, coarse spirals of her hair and the other to her thick waist, and in the same moment he angles her head back, he relaxes the press of their lips and opens himself to the softness of her mouth.

Damn it all if he isn’t itching to rid himself of his armor now. He wants to get in that bath, scented oils and all, and wash them clean of these last several hours, to lie down with her in that plush bed and lose himself to her touch. She’s already taking him there, with the steady deepening of her breath and the low whimpers beginning to issue from her throat, with the way her hips are slowly starting to move against his. “What are you doing?” he mutters into her mouth, trying not to smile as he pulls slightly away and opens his eyes.

Morowa grins outright, wet lips glistening, tempting him forward again. “Giving you ideas.”

“In your new palace?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Not the best way to start your rule, Hawke.”

“If it’s mine, what does it matter?” Morowa chuckles, her fingers massaging into his shoulders. “It _is_ large, though, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” he murmurs in answer, smirking as she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to the underside of his jaw. “You should be able to fit your giant tub in here, at least.”

“That’ll be the first renovation, then.” She shifts, keeping his arm about her waist and pressing her temple against his as she lifts her gaze to examine the rafters. “This place will definitely need an overhaul when it comes to the décor. Its previous occupants clearly lacked taste.”

“Or maybe they were less concerned with lace-draped end tables and more concerned with _ruling_.”

“If that’s the case, then they were boring, too.”

“Priorities,” he insists, his hand squeezing lightly at her hip. “You’ll have your work cut out for you, handling the problems of this city. Redecorating will be the least of your concerns.”

Morowa’s eyes are on the Viscount’s unoccupied office when his words seem to register and she looks at him. “You make it sound like I’ll be alone. Are you all going somewhere and haven’t yet broken the news?”

Fenris shrugs, gently pulling away as his hands fall to his sides. “It seems inevitable, doesn’t it? We were all on different paths when we came together under your proverbial banner. And now that banner is to be the banner for all of Kirkwall.” He meets her eyes briefly before looking away. “It doesn’t sound like there will be much room for us once the seal is in place and the ink has dried.”

He tries to keep the disquiet from entering into his tone, unwilling to taint their peace with his thoughts. However, he can’t completely stop their inward turn. “Do you remember,” he begins, “ten years ago, when we first met?” He reaches out and sweeps one hand over her shoulder, her hair loose again from her updo (this time because of him) and following the path of his fingers. “After our raid of Danarius’ mansion, I asked what you sought to gain with the magic at your disposal.” He smiles. A million possibilities, and he _never_ anticipated that night would lead him here. “You said you wanted power.” Morowa grins back.

“Yes, and _you_ condemned me to the fate of an abomination.” No blame in her voice, only amusement. “An abomination running Kirkwall? Somehow seems appropriate.”

He can’t disagree. “Fortunately, I was wrong.”

“Only just. I’m fairly certain a pride demon will show up on my doorstep _one_ of these days to try my arrogance.” Her jewelry softly clinks as she shifts her weight. “I hope you plan on being here when it finally happens. If you all leave, I might not be able to resist its offer.”

“Then I’ll be sure to return,” he quips. “Killing evil mages is my specialty, after all.”

He admittedly has a hard time imagining those in their ragtag bunch leaving for other shores, troubled a shore as Kirkwall’s is. So long as Morowa remains, and regardless of what power and privilege she may gain in the coming months, they’d never leave her to fend here for herself. They love her, just as he does.

“You’re a cruel man, you know that?” Morowa sighs, her hands going again to her hair to expertly fix it back in place. “I almost don’t want to share my tub with you, anymore.”

“Good. The bath salts make my skin itch.”

“Blasphemy, Fenris, _really_. You’re making my ears bleed.”

He chuckles. She’s one of very few who can get him talking like this, bantering back and forth like he’s actually sociable. ‘A gift for gab’, she once called it, something Leandra had tried to grow her out of until she realized just how charming a young, talkative Morowa could be.

His smile weakens. Such a talent will come in handy for her in these coming months, no doubt.

“Your face says you’re brooding again, ser knight.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t deny it this time.

“Reminiscing about more of our greatest moments?”

He smirks. “Perhaps.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to do it alone. Let’s see.” Morowa’s arm goes around her generous middle as she plants her chin on a fist in thought and starts a leisurely walk. “We have the night we met, my first visit to the manor, during which you so kindly greeted me by throwing wine at the wall, our first night together, the _aftermath_ of our first night together, because that certainly was an event all its own.” She tosses him a glance. “Quite the record we have, eh? What have you come up with?”

He’d unseeingly lifted his eyes to the windows when she began speaking. He brings them back down to regard her with a small smile. “The night we reconciled,” he offers.

She pauses, as he hoped she would. Turning to face him, her head tilts, her features notably softening. “Oh, that _is_ a good one.”

He steps closer, lightly shrugging his shoulders as he feigns nonchalance. “It could’ve been better.”

Morowa’s face predictably pinches in disagreement. “Nonsense.”

He takes another step. “I could’ve brought wine.”

“ _Please_.”

Another step. “Or dinner.”

“As if we would’ve found the time to _eat_ it.”

A few steps more, ‘til he’s just outside the range of her arms. “Or a gift.”

“I wouldn’t have had a need for a-” She cuts herself short, her lips pursing. She shrugs. “Alright, maybe a gift.”

He laughs aloud. _As ridiculous as she is beautiful._ It was one of the first thoughts he entertained about her that wasn’t tainted by his mage sentiments, and she’s consistently proven him right since. He takes those last couple steps and wraps his arms just under hers around her waist. “As I said,” he begins, enjoying the return of her heat against his chest, “greedy.”

Morowa concedes with an easy nod. “At any rate, it would be nice to do such things with one another. Picnics by the Wounded Coast, moonlit walks through the square, passionate ruts against the second-floor window _right_ where the Arenbergs can see our naked, writhing bodies.”

Fenris lifts an eyebrow. “That’s quite the image.”

“Of course.” She places her hands on his armored chest, dances her fingers over the steeled ridges. “With all the hubbub over my inevitable coronation, it-”

“Coronation?” he echoes, his tone coolly skeptical.

“ _Appointment_ , then.” She turns her nose up at him before continuing. “It’ll all be very busy. Reports, engagements, convincing various blowhards that no, I _don’t_ plan on pulling a qunari and over-running the city with my Fereldan brethren.”

Fenris snorts. She shrugs.

“There won’t be many opportunities for indulgence, is my point. I was hoping you and I would take the few chances we _will_ have to relax and enjoy one another, however we choose to.”  She sighs, just dramatically enough for a warning flag to wave in his mind’s eye. “But with all this talk of _leaving_ , I suppose we should forget-”

“Are you trying to guilt me into staying in Kirkwall, Hawke?” His lips thin in suspicion. Morowa gasps, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’.

“I would never! I’m merely reiterating _your_ own point.”

“And guilting me for it.”

“No, I’m taking your plan into consideration, as any good friend and lover would.”

“And guilting me for it.”

“While your leaving will undoubtedly break my heart as sure as an ogre breaks one’s bones, I don’t want such a fact hindering you from doing what you believe to be best.”

 _And so you guilt me_. He sighs. “Hawke.”

“Hopefully, in time, I’ll manage to find another to love, someone who will actually _remain_ at my side instead of _leaving_ me for parts unknown. Maybe they’ll be a warrior like you, an expert wielder of blades. Maybe we’ll grow to have the same electric chemistry you and I have always shared, in war, in debate, in my armchair near the fireplace.”

He smirks. “Hawke.”

“Another knight, that’s what they should be! Maybe they’ll wear a suit of armor, gallivant to my doorstep on a steed most noble and present to me the world on a gilded platter.” Morowa breathes out, gazing toward the throne room. “What an idea,” she says, then looks at him out the corner of her eye, mischievous. “Too bad it’s not what I want.”

Fenris briefly closes his eyes, half-sure he’s going to regret his inquiry. “And what _do_ you want, Good Lady Hawke?” he asks. _To add to the million other things._ Morowa laces their fingers together on her waist, her nose brushing his as she grins.

“Guess,” she whispers.

“Well, don’t I feel special?” he says. Coolly, contrasting to the warmth – non-magical, this time – spreading again in his chest.

“You should.” Morowa squeezes his fingers. “You do know I was joking, right?”

“In regards to your poor attempt at emotional manipulation?” He snickers. “Yes, Hawke, I believe I caught the jest.”

“Just checking. For some reason, people think I’m actually capable of such a thing.”

“Why ever would they?” He squeezes her fingers in return. “Fortunately for you, I can see not only beyond your vanity, but your shallow ‘humor’ as well.”

Morowa pouts. “You really are a horrible man. I don’t even know why I want you.”

“Likewise.”

They share a smile, and squeeze their fingers together a little tighter in the silence that follows. He breaks it first. “I wish to remain here,” he says. It’s matter-of-fact, blunt as he always is, but it’s also true, more than near all the words he’s ever bothered to speak.

“I want you to remain here,” she replies. Equally matter-of-fact, equally honest.

“I don’t want to be your burden.” He couldn’t care less what these nobles think of him, but he knows the trouble that could ignite with the knowledge that their Champion and chosen savior shares her heart and bed with someone they deem to be unworthy. It’s not the first time he’s thought about it, and they’ll ensure it’s not the last.

“I don’t want to be _your_ burden.” Morowa chuckles lightly. “I wasn’t joking when I said there’ll be little time for us, Fenris. The demands on me will be high and the eyes on me will be hard, maybe even more than I’m expecting.” She shrugs. “But this is my dream. I want this, _asked_ for this. You didn’t, and I’d hate for you to catch yourself up in it all if it’s not what you truly want.”

“It’s certainly not where I expected to be,” he admits, thinking again of the absurdity of their situation. “Freedom was always meant to consist of my remaining _out_ of the limelight.”

“You still have the option.” She looks at him, and his heart thumps once, resonates deep. “You’ll always have the option.”

He can’t help but smirk. “And you won’t guilt me if I choose it?”

She shrugs again, some of her ever-present haughtiness returning to her eyes. “Not too much.”

“How considerate.” Their noses are still brushing, every inch of their bodies pressed close, tight, warm, _safe_. “I wish to remain here,” he says again, low and rumbling, his lips brushing against hers to seal his point. She must have at least suspected it would be his choice; they’ve been through too much, loved too hard, to part now.

And yet the way her eyes seem to shine, with genuine surprise, with _relief_. For just a moment, she looks a young woman in her twenties again, newly arrived in a foreign, hostile place and uncertain of her fate.

And she’s just been assured that she won’t have to face it alone.

Palpable, a feeling like that. He’s come to know it well, in these last years.

“Well,” she begins, her breath heavier, her voice just a touch shaky. She’ll keep it held in until they reach home, he thinks. Only then, when this day is finally behind them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns, his own voice deepening again, near guttural, and his smile razor-sharp. “You’re putting an elf in a room full of privileged bluebloods. Let’s see how they like having someone like _me_ as their equal.”

It’s gratifying, _so_ gratifying, when Morowa’s own lips stretch into a matching smile he can only perceive as _devious_. _Beautiful, ridiculous woman_. She rests her forehead against his, her eyes glittering as she allows just a little bit of her joy to show. “It. Will. Be. _Glorious_.”

“The dwarf better start writing, then.”


End file.
